


Playing To Their Strengths

by dragonflower1



Series: Team Sheppard [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Hidden Talents, Memories, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Off-World, SGA Secret Santa Fic Exchange, Team Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13122318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflower1/pseuds/dragonflower1
Summary: An off-world mission gone awry gives Ronon the opportunity to reveal a hidden talent, while forcing Teyla to come to terms with an ability better left in the dark.





	Playing To Their Strengths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PuddleJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuddleJ/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, PuddleJ! I loved your idea of letting Ronon and Teyla shine and reveal some of their little-used talents, and ran with that. I did play a bit fast and loose with the actual canon, but it's still there if you squint. I hope you like it! <3
> 
> It takes place late in Season 5, after 'The Prodigal' and before 'Enemy at the Gate.'

It was the singing that Rodney first became aware of as he slowly swam toward consciousness. The low, melodious sound of a man's voice singing something tuneful and repetitive - like a children's song or a sea shanty. McKay’s brow creased as he struggled to make it out, but neither the tune nor the words were familiar. 

That was alright, though. The voice that sang it was good: untrained, but on-pitch, and tending toward a furry baritone that was soft and soothing. 

Boneless and relaxed in a way that only happened when he was on some of the good drugs the infirmary usually administered - oh yeah, he'd been drugged - Rodney floated on the sound, drifting in and out of wakefulness as it flowed over and through him. He had the vague impression that the singer was unaware he had an audience, the song stopping randomly mid-stanza only to pick up again where it left off a few moments later, while quiet noises of industry filled the silence in between: the slide of one fabric surface against another, the furtive, intermittent tapping of what sounded like a small hammer. It was difficult to concentrate, but if he had to guess, he'd say that the man was most likely engaged in some mindless task and was singing to himself as he worked. 

And Rodney was content to let him. Drifting again, he was on the verge of allowing the unfamiliar tune to lull him to sleep once more when his nose started to itch. One of those sharp, sudden, insistent itches that demanded immediate attention. It wasn’t until he tried lifting his hand to scratch it that he realized he’d been tied down to whatever he was lying on. His eyes flew open as a jolt of adrenaline shot through him and the drowsy sense of well-being he’d been cocooned in shattered, only to find that he couldn’t see for the fabric blocking his vision. With a terrified gasp he jerked from side-to-side, testing his bonds, but he’d been well and truly immobilized. 

A sound of animal panic escaped McKay’s throat as he struggled, too lost to his instinctive flight-or-fight response to realize that the singing had ceased until a large, calloused hand was laid tenderly against his cheek a moment later.

“Shhh,” he was admonished quietly by the disembodied voice now hovering over him. “You’re going to make things worse.”

Rodney stilled as confusion supplanted fear. Although the gentle touch was a surprise, he’d know that voice anywhere. “Ronon?” he croaked uncertainly. “What’s going on?” His voice gained strength and urgency as he continued. “Why am I blindfolded? How long have I been out? Why am I tied up?”

A huff of what could have been either amusement or irritation reached his ears as the cloth was lifted from his face. Sunlight filtering through evergreen boughs was the first thing that greeted him, blinding him after the enforced darkness, and he squeezed his eyes shut with an aggrieved shout. “Hey! You could warn a guy!”

“It wasn’t a blindfold; it was to keep the sun out of your eyes so you could rest.” This time the sigh Ronon heaved definitely held frustration as he settled next to Rodney’s supine form with a wadded-up t-shirt in his hand. “You’ve been asleep for about four hours. I knew I waited too long to give you another shot.”

“Another shot of what?” McKay asked as he cracked one eye open. The Satedan had thoughtfully situated himself between Rodney and the worst of the daylight, which, diffused as it was by the overhanging branches, admittedly wasn’t that bright now that he’d had a chance to acclimate to it. 

“Stuff to dull the pain,” Ronon replied matter-of-factly, as he rummaged briefly through a pack beyond Rodney’s line of sight. Having gathered what McKay could only assume was more ‘stuff to dull the pain,’ the Satedan turned back to face him. 

Now that Rodney could see, he was able to make out a purplish-red bruise swelling Ronon’s right eye shut, and a gash on his forehead covered with a square of white gauze that stood out in the shadows cast by the big man’s dreads.

“What the hell happened?”

“You don’t remember any of it, do you.” Ronon’s stern features softened with amusement as he took in the scientist’s perplexed expression. “Away mission. Cave-in. Broken bones. Any of this sounding familiar?”

Rodney wracked his brains, trying to clear the drug-induced cobwebs. Now that he’d been prompted, he recalled the mission easily enough. According to John’s estimation it should have been a ‘milk run’ –uneventful recon, based on data retrieved from the MALP. Of course, those were the ones that usually ended up blowing up in their faces, sometimes literally.

This one had been no exception. 

Team Sheppard had been sent to investigate a faint power signature emanating from Ancient ruins located on P4X-282. It was an uninhabited world Atlantis had stumbled upon in its incessant search for charged ZPM’s, or better yet, a facility dedicated to their manufacture. The structures in question had long ago been all but swallowed by dense forest, which had grown up in the intervening millennia since the last human had either fled or been culled, and much to McKay’s dismay, they’d had to abandon the Jumper at the edge of the tree line and hike the five or six kilometers between them and their destination. It had been slow-going, and hot and muggy, to boot, and by the time they’d reached the Ancient fortress they’d all been out of sorts. Even Teyla, whose usually-serene acceptance in the face of adversity had been strained to the breaking point. 

Things had gone downhill rapidly from there, and where the details started to get fuzzy.

“I remember us triggering a whole bunch of booby traps once we were inside the complex,” Rodney replied, as he sought to sharpen memories that stubbornly remained hazy and indistinct. “Teyla barely escaped being cut to ribbons at one point by a pendulum blade, and John almost got himself impaled on that wall of spring-loaded metal spikes.”

Ronon nodded, the light of savage admiration gleaming in his dark eyes. “Those were well-laid traps. Even I didn’t see them coming.”

McKay couldn’t help but flash a crooked grin. “Is that how you got that?” he quipped, indicating the Satedan’s shiner with his chin. “A booby trap you didn’t see coming?”

The big warrior’s features resumed their habitual scowl, all kidding aside. “No. That happened while digging you out of a pile of rubble after half the ceiling in the main hall gave way and fell on you. There were still a few loose stones at the edge of the hole that came down on my head.”

Rodney winced, chagrined that he’d been so cavalier about Ronon’s injuries when the Satedan had sustained them on his behalf. “Oh… Is that what happened? I’m sorry - I can’t remember.” He met the warrior’s dark green gaze, his own expression rueful. “Thank you.”

Ronon acknowledged his thanks with a grunt and a small nod. “No need to apologize. I’m not surprised you have no memory of the event – or of those leading up to, and following it. It’s a common side effect of trauma.”

McKay swallowed hard. He was almost afraid to ask. “Exactly how traumatized am I?”

“You have a broken leg and a broken arm. I set and splinted them both as best I could, and immobilized you until we can get you back to Atlantis. You also have some abrasions and contusions, but nothing terrible. I’ve been building a travois so we have something to drag you back to the Jumper in. You’ll live.”

“What about my head?” Rodney practically squeaked. A fresh wave of terror seized him, and pain shot through his broken limbs as he strained ineffectually against the ropes that bound him. His greatest fear was that something might damage his precious brain - his incredible, unique, brilliant mind. “Are you sure I’m not concussed – or worse? Why was I unconscious?” 

A large hand was spread soothingly across his chest over his wildly-beating heart, and almost against his will, McKay found himself calming. 

“You were conscious when we pulled you out, and babbling about your head. I was concerned you might have gotten hit, but I couldn’t find any evidence of bumps or swelling, and your pupils were equal and reactive. You were dazed, though, and in a lot of pain, and thrashing around so much that I was afraid you’d do more damage to yourself. 

“Since we were both injured, Sheppard told me to bring you out and stay with you while they continued on. So, as soon as I got you to safety, I tied you down and drugged you to keep you quiet.”

Rather than being angry at being manhandled by Conan the Barbarian, Rodney found himself oddly impressed for a moment by the Satedan’s understanding of advanced first aid techniques and rudimentary medical procedures, before dismissing it as mere mimicry. Of course, Ronon must have picked it all up by watching Jennifer and her staff working on members of the team. They spent enough time in the Infirmary, after all. And yet… the warrior seemed so sure of himself. 

As usual, McKay’s curiosity got the better of him and his mouth began framing the inquiry before he’d even realized he’d spoken aloud. “How did you know…?” he trailed off, suddenly aware of how indebted he was to the former Runner and uncertain how to proceed without offending him.

Ronon snorted. He wasn’t a fool. He knew what McKay was after, and why, and although it bothered him that the man continually underestimated his intelligence based on his outward appearance, long association had taught him that it wasn’t personal. Rodney looked down on everyone. 

The Satedan’s lips twisted into a rye smirk. “How did a big, dumb barbarian like me learn all of this? Is that what you want to know?”

_Right down to the metaphor._ McKay’s cheeks blazed as he nodded, abashed. 

“Melena taught me,” Ronon’s voice grew ragged as he uttered her name, and he had to look away. His gaze slid to the vial and syringe resting forgotten in his palm, and he focused on the light glancing off the curved glass until he wrestled his grief, still raw and fresh after ten years, back in its box. 

“As you know, she was a healer,” he went on, when he trusted himself to speak again. He raised fierce eyes to meet the scientist’s startled gaze, silently daring Rodney to mention the momentary weakness he’d been unable to hide. When McKay only nodded, seemingly sensing the Satedan’s precarious hold on his emotions, Ronon drew a deep breath and continued. 

“Before the Wraith came, I was a student at what you would call ‘university,’ and a member of the militia. I was always getting injured during drills: cuts, bruises, a broken wrist, a concussion…” Ronon unconsciously touched his fingertips to the gauze pad on his forehead, a fond, faraway expression on his face. “Melena was often on-call in the walk-in clinic at the hospital whenever I limped in, and made it her task to personally see to my wounds. We eventually started courting, and when we became a couple, she decided I needed to know how to take care of myself, in case...,” Ronon’s narrative faltered for a second as he swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. “In case she wasn’t there to do it.” 

He swiped the back of an impatient hand across his good eye and shrugged, then began to prepare Rodney’s injection. “Who’d have thought I’d be forced to put all her teaching to use so soon? Within six months, the Wraith attacked. Melena was killed and I was made a Runner. With no place to call home and no one to turn to if I was injured or sick, I had to make do on my own.

“I thank the Ancestors – and Melena - every day, for the gift she gave me. Without it, I wouldn’t be alive now.”

He risked a glance in Rodney’s direction and saw something he'd only ever seen once before in the Canadian’s eyes: sympathy. Shaken to find such unexpected support from such an unlikely source, Ronon did something he rarely did: he let his guard down and a look of understanding passed between them, acknowledging the universal tragedy of loss. The emotion in Rodney’s expression threatened to reduce him to tears, but the Satedan fought it back and set his jaw. Then he bent over McKay’s arm with the syringe poised, and the moment passed.

“Thank you for telling me that,” Rodney murmured awkwardly to the top of Ronon’s head, mildly bemused. He was touched that the Satedan would share something so deeply personal with him after all this time, but was at a loss as to how to respond. He’d never been very good at being human. An instant later, the dilemma became moot when he felt the cold wetness of an antiseptic wipe rubbed over the crook of his arm, followed by the sting of the needle. 

Ronon straightened and patted McKay’s shoulder reassuringly. “You’re all set.”

Almost immediately the edges of Rodney’s vision began to dim, when something suddenly occurred to him.

“Hey,” he said, his voice already reduced to a breathy whisper as the sedative’s siren call to sleep grew more insistent. “Was that you singing earlier? Wha’ was that?”

“Yeah, that was me. It’s a Satedan lullaby. Gets stuck in my head sometimes.”

Rodney nodded in understanding as his eyelids rolled shut. “S’nice song,” he murmured, finally succumbing to Lethe’s comforting embrace. “Pretty voice...”

McKay’s comment ended in a snore. An expression of indulgent affection softened Ronon’s imperious glare as he brushed a strand of hair off the scientist’s forehead. “Thank you, friend.”

0*0*0*0*0

John awakened to find himself in pitch blackness, and lying on his back on a hard, uneven surface whose bone-chilling temperature was currently trying to leach the last of the warmth from his prone body. Shivering, he wondered where he was and how he got there. It took a dizzying moment of disorientation before he recalled the trapdoor which had opened beneath his and Teyla’s feet, and he silently cursed the misstep that had sent them both hurtling into the unknown.

The Athosian! Where was she? 

“Teyla?” Her name reverberated hollowly off unseen walls, but there was no reply. 

Sheppard blinked hard a couple of times trying to clear his vision but the blackness remained unchanged, and a terrible thought rose unbidden in his mind. What if the real reason he literally couldn’t see a hand in front of his face was because he’d injured himself in some critical way and been rendered blind? A wave of visceral terror washed over him, but before he could do more than hitch a single, panicked breath his military training kicked in, and he forcefully pushed the gut-wrenching fear aside so he could focus on the here-and-now. 

With clammy hands, John did a quick self-inventory to make sure nothing was obviously broken, that he wasn’t actively bleeding, and could move all his appendages. Satisfied that all was as well as could be expected, considering, he reached to tap his earpiece only to find it missing, likely dislodged in the fall. Next, he groped around trying to locate his P-90, then his flashlight, but they were gone, as well.

Quickly shifting mental gears, Sheppard ripped open the Velcro seal holding one of the chest pockets of his flak jacket closed, his concern ratcheting up a notch as he was forced to dig deeper into his bag of tricks. He fumbled for the matches he kept there, his anxiety reluctantly giving way to a glimmer of hope when he located the tiny cardboard box by feel. Drawing it out carefully lest he drop it in the dark, he then pulled out one of the wooden matches and struck it against the emery on the side of the box. 

With a whiff of sulfur, the tiny flame flared to life, only to gutter almost immediately in a draft; but not before an involuntary shout of joy escaped John’s throat when he was able to see its brilliance.

Relieved and embarrassed, his cheeks burned as he dropped the dead match and pulled another from the box with shaking fingers. Lighting the second one with more care, Sheppard cupped his hand around it as he held it aloft. In the feeble, fleeting light he quickly ascertained that neither Teyla nor his equipment were immediately visible amongst the loose stones and debris which had accompanied them on their way down. 

He also managed to make out the shadowy, uneven surface of high, rock walls and rough-hewn archways leading to dark passages before the match burned down to his fingertips. With a hissed expletive, he dropped it and watched it die on the stone floor, the afterimage of the flame a white spot in his vision as he was once again plunged into the unremitting blackness. He automatically reached for another but paused before lighting it, the tip poised at the striker. He only had forty of them – thirty-eight, now, and he had no idea how long it would to take to locate Teyla and find their way out. He was going to have to use them sparingly. 

Reluctantly, he dropped the unlit matchstick back in the box, slid it closed, and put it back in his pocket. Then he staggered to his feet, drew his Beretta from its thigh holster, and headed across a gallery whose floorplan he’d only had an instant to memorize, wondering how the hell they were getting out of this one. 

“Teyla! Where are you?” John called, inwardly cringing at the desperate edge in his voice echoing back to him as he blindly inched his way along a wall he could not see.

A soft, furtive noise just head brought him to a halt, and he raised his weapon uncertainly. “Who’s there?” he challenged authoritatively, although he knew full well that he was the one at a disadvantage.

The rustling grew louder, and the Colonel’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Who’s there?” he demanded again as he pinpointed the sound’s general direction, which seemed to be coming from somewhere just beyond the passage he was in. He didn’t like the idea of firing blind, but, contrary to popular belief, he also wasn’t a fan of dying unnecessarily. If someone was going down here, he wasn’t about to let it be him – not if he could help it. 

His eyes wide in the absolute darkness that pressed in on him from all sides, Sheppard’s pulse raced as the sound of movement grew more distinct. A trickle of sweat ran past his temple and down his cheek leaving a line of coldness behind, but he barely noticed it as he aimed the pistol, his hand steady and still. As he peered into the void, he suddenly caught a brief glimpse of phosphorescence at the opposite end of the vaulted hallway, twin flashes of light that flickered and were gone – and looked eerily familiar. 

Is that what they’d stumbled upon? Some sort of Wraith stronghold, or an undiscovered lab of Michael’s, abandoned but for a stray experiment or two left behind to haunt the catacombs? 

”Damn Wraith,” John growled, firing two shots in quick succession. The muzzle flash seared his night-sensitive retinas while the concussive blast of gunfire made his ears ring as it ricocheted off the close, curved walls. Stumbling back under the sensory assault, Sheppard prepared to fire again when he dimly heard his name being called once, then again. 

“John! John! Stop!”

“Teyla?” John immediately put up his gun, adrenaline and alarm coursing through him in equal measures. “Jesus, Teyla! Why didn’t you answer me? You could have been killed. Are you alright?”

“Yes, John. I am fine,” the Athosian replied soothingly from somewhere close by. He could hear her more clearly now that the ringing in his ears had started to subside. “Who were you firing at?”

Sheppard instinctively tensed when a feminine hand was laid cautiously on his arm, and had to force himself to relax. Unfortunately, touching was going to be a necessity for a while so they could keep track of each other in the dark. “There was a Wraith at the end of the hall.”

“I believe you are mistaken, John. I sense no Wraith here.”

“But…,” Sheppard began, confused. “I could have sworn I saw the damn thing’s glowing eyes. Maybe it was one of Michael’s hybrids.”

“The dark can play tricks on our eyes and plague our minds with illusions. There are no Wraith here – or castoffs of Michael’s insane obsession, of that I am certain.” 

Sheppard could hear the gentle smile in Teyla’s voice, feel the conviction in her words, and he released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” 

John nodded acquiescence, realizing as he did so that she wouldn’t be able to see the gesture. He tried again, verbally. “I believe you, but I’d also like to see for myself if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

Sheppard clicked the safety on the Beretta and re-sheathed it in its holster, then pulled out the matches. “Watch your eyes,” he warned, averting his gaze as he lit one against the box. The flame sprang to life, illuminating the damp stone walls of the hallway and Teyla’s upturned face, dirt-streaked and full of concern. Of the alleged enemy there was no sign. 

“It’s good to see you,” he remarked with a grin. The Athosian woman smiled back. “Now can you tell me where you’ve been and why you didn’t answer when I called you?”

Teyla’s smile faltered for a split second before reasserting itself, but John noticed the slip. His eyes narrowed, but before he could pursue it, the tiny flame began licking at his thumb and he had to flick it to the floor, leaving them both in darkness. 

“What’s going on, Teyla,” he tried again. This time it was a command, not a question.

He heard her draw a breath next to him and felt the pressure of her fingers squeezing reflexively on his arm. “I have been exploring,” she replied as she tugged gently, urging him forward. “I believe I have found a way out.”

Sheppard allowed himself to be moved, and followed where Teyla led him with uncanny certainty. “How did you find your way around? I can’t see a thing.”

He sensed the hesitation, minute though it was, before she responded. “Not only am I the hereditary leader of my people, but I also come from a long line of hunters and trackers. Athosians are nomadic, as you know, and both skills are prized in our society. As Headwoman, I have done my fair share of night hunting. It is not difficult if you are born to it.”

They traveled in strained silence after that, Teyla stopping every now and again to get her bearings while John stuffed down the disquiet which had begun to grow in his chest.

Finally unable to ignore the warning bells going off in his head any longer, Sheppard ground to a stop. The sudden movement pulled Teyla off balance, and he took the opportunity to grab her by the shoulders, swinging her around to face him. Although he couldn’t see her, he could feel her agitation, thrumming through her like a taut wire stretched to the breaking point.

“Teyla, tell me the truth. That was you at the end of the hall, wasn’t it?”

If possible, the tension grew even more palpable.

“What do you mean?” She asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“I mean, the eyes I saw – that was you. You’re not ‘tracking’ anything. There’s no special skill involved here. You can see in the dark – like a Wraith. That’s why you didn’t answer me. You didn’t want me to know it was you.”

A pair of faintly-glowing eyes were raised to look at him then, full of hurt and sadness. Up close he could see that the luminescence was not as bright as that found in the eyes of a true Wraith, but lingered in their depths nonetheless. 

“Like… my ability to sense Wraith, and my meager telepathic achievements, my night vision is not as acute as theirs, but I am able to pick out details in low light.”

John didn’t know whether to pull her closer and comfort her, or push her away and run. He’d always been a little leery of the ‘gifts’ Teyla’s Wraith DNA had bestowed upon her, but none had ever given him the creeps like this one. Her Spidey-sense when it came to a Wraith’s presence, and her ability to link with them telepathically were invisible talents, easily overlooked in the interests of calling her ‘human,’ but her eyes all aglow from within made her seem truly… alien. 

“Why have I never noticed this before?” he demanded, his anger rising, although he wasn’t quite sure who his ire was aimed at, or which of them he wanted an answer from. 

“It only happens in the most dire of situations,” Teyla supplied. “Stuck in an underground cavern, as we are now – or on the darkest of nights when there are no moons. If there are any light sources available, it tends not to occur, at least not so it is noticeable to a casual observer. I have also gone out of my way before now to… keep it hidden as much as possible, by averting my gaze in low-light situations, or offering to act as point.”

“So, you’ve been lying to us – to me, all along. You’ve been hiding what you are,” Sheppard accused. He did let her go then, and stepped away, immediately regretting his decision. Cut adrift from the Athosian, he was once again lost in the dark and alone, but he was too stung by her betrayal to reach for her. 

“I feared you would react badly if I revealed the true extent of my gifts, especially once it had been determined that they were of Wraith origin.” She paused and sighed. “It pains me that my fears were justified.”

“We’ve been teammates for five years,” John stated, his tone harsh. “And I thought we were friends. I trusted you. How am I supposed to trust you now that I know you’ve been lying to me about something so fundamental? I thought we’d gotten this all out in the open a long time ago, and now I find out there’s more. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“We are,” Teyla asserted firmly. “I did not tell you because I did not wish to jeopardize our friendship. I know how you feel about Wraith, and I did not wish to be on the other side of that divide.”

It was Sheppard’s turn sigh as his anger suddenly drained away, replaced by resignation. In his heart of hearts, he knew that the only one with a problem here was him. If he was honest with himself, Teyla had done the right thing, keeping her Wraith-imbued night vision a secret for as long as possible. She’d called it in one, predicting that he’d react badly once he learned of it. He was definitely having a problem with it – with her, all over again – and it was going to take a while for him to adjust to her new, elevated level of Wraithiness. But was that worth destroying their relationship over? She’d never been anything but a true and caring friend, right from the beginning; and he could use all the friends he could get. 

“Honestly, I don’t know where we stand right now,” he admitted. “All I know is that I need you - and your alien ability – to get us out of here.”

His other senses heightened to offset the loss of sight in the oppressive subterranean blackness, John felt the Athosian by his side a heartbeat before she slipped her hand around his arm again. “I will not fail you, John,” she promised as they started off again. 

He was just starting to wonder if they were going around in circles when they suddenly turned a corner and emerged from the darkness into the faint bluish glow of a large hexagonal hall full of Ancient tech. As Sheppard set foot in the room, everything lit up. The lights in the floor and walls intensified in the same way that Atlantis had responded to him when he’d first walked through the Gate, while screens came to life with cascades of Alteran script scrolling past too quickly to decipher. In the center of the room was a Chair, surrounded by all manner of Ancient devices, some of which John recognized from having them thrust upon him by the scientists to turn on, and others he’d never seen before. The Chair, itself, was adorned with wreaths of long-wilted flowers which crumbled to dust at a touch, and seated in it was the rag-covered skeletal remains of a man. His hands were folded across his sternum as if in repose, and on top of his skull rested a crown. What little remained of the garments he wore seemed to be made of fine linen and velvet. 

“A great leader, honored by his people?” Teyla conjectured, as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder gazing upon what was obviously a funeral bier. 

“Mmm – perhaps,” John replied. “Or maybe he was the last of his line. The last one with the Ancient gene who could make any of this work.” He left the Athosian by the Chair and wandered around the perimeter of the vault, glancing up at the high ceiling of the domed room and the niches all around the walls that held treasure troves of Ancient artifacts piled without seeming order. “This reminds me an awful lot of King Tutankhamun’s tomb on Earth: untold riches set aside for a dead man to use in the afterlife.”

He met the Athosian’s honey-brown eyes from across the room, so normal-looking in the azure light. So much like the Teyla he’d come to know and rely on over the past five years, that he felt the hasty emotional barricade he’d erected start to crumble. “I think we’re in this guy’s final resting place.”

Teyla nodded, her gaze drifting over the abundance of Ancient wealth. “I agree. And I believe we have located the source of the energy emanating from the city. There must be a ZPM present somewhere, to power it all, but I do not have the heart to take it.”

“Me either. We’ll leave that for the scientists. They’re going to have a field day when they get a load of all this stuff.” Sheppard grinned mischievously at a sudden thought. “With a broken arm and leg, Rodney’s not going to be able to come down here to supervise the work himself. He’s going to be soooo pissed off.” 

Still amused, John took one last look around, then rejoined Teyla and offered her his arm with an exaggerated flourish. “Okay… Bright Eyes,” he quipped, earning him a small, relieved smile from the diminutive Athosian, “Care to lead us out of here?”

0*0*0*0*0

Night had fallen by the time John and Teyla finally stumbled out of the ruins a few hours later. Unfamiliar constellations peppered the sky like diamonds scattered on black velvet, while three of the planet’s four moons offered slender crescents of illumination, casting a faint purplish glow across the broken battlements and the saplings that rose from the cracked pavement of the Ancient plaza. 

“It’s like daytime out there,” John mused as he paused in the shadowed doorway, finding himself squinting in the low light after the absolute blackness of the pit they’d just escaped from.

“Welcome to _my_ world,” Teyla joked as she brushed past him. 

The light of a campfire flickered at them from the other side of the broad plaza like a homing beacon, situated just beyond the edge of the pavement where the forest rose up deep and dark. Sheppard pointed it out, and as one, the pair began migrating toward it through the sparse tree cover. 

The smell of cooking meat wafted past them on the warm evening breeze, and John unconsciously lengthened his stride, his mouth watering at the prospect of a tasty meal. Leave it to Ronon to ensure they wouldn’t have to rely on MRE’s for dinner. 

His eyes glued to the dancing firelight ahead, he began catching glimpses of movement around it through the trees, which resolved into the other half of his team as he drew closer. He could see Rodney lying on his back under what looked like a makeshift lean-to with stark white bandages encasing an arm and a leg. McKay was awake, and talking – or complaining, if the expression on his face and the wideness of his mouth was anything to go by. With a snort of amusement, John shifted his trajectory just a little, searching for Ronon. And there he was - crouched by the fire and carefully adjusting the placement of something impaled on a stick and roasting over the flames. 

His people. His team. His family. It was all so cozy and domestic that a lump formed in John’s throat. 

Swallowing hard, he turned to say something witty to Teyla to dispel the emotions he didn’t have the skills to process, when he realized she wasn’t with him. He paused and looked around for her, confused. Glancing behind him, he picked out what he thought might be her still figure about twenty paces back. John retraced his steps and returned to her side, a concerned crease marring his brow. 

“What’s going on, Teyla?” he asked softly.

“We need to make something clear,” she replied without preamble. “I need you to promise that you will not say anything to Rodney or Ronon about what you discovered tonight. Rodney would just see it as an oddity and ask incessant and awkward questions. And Ronon… I think Ronon would have a very hard time accepting it. Like you, I believe he chooses to look the other way whenever I must use my abilities, and dismisses the differences between us because they are unseen. This is something that, once known, he would be unable to avoid, and would be constantly on the lookout for. I fear it would eventually drive a wedge between us.” 

John nodded, trying to see her expression in the dim moonlight. He knew that she could probably read his like a book, and he was oddly okay with that. “Of course. It’s your secret to tell or not tell in your own time. It’s also an amazing ability – a talent we’ve been reaping the benefits from since day one and we didn’t even know it. Even if you decide to never share with the class, you make us all the stronger for it. Never forget that.”

Now that he knew what to look for, he could detect the faint shimmer in her eyes as they shifted to meet his. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice full of gratitude that although he could not see, he could feel. 

“You’re welcome. What are friends for?” Sheppard offered his arm again. “Now let’s get going before we miss out on dinner.” 

When Teyla took it, they ambled toward camp in companionable silence. Together. 

 

END


End file.
